


A Summer Thaw

by TwelveLeagues



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Ghosts, M/M, Nature, Not-so-phenomenal supernatural powers, Post-Seine, but some nice flowers?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-12-31 20:34:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21151817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwelveLeagues/pseuds/TwelveLeagues
Summary: A lesson he had learned over and over again in life — and, it seemed, must learn once again in this place beyond life — was the power of gentle persistence.A bishop is summoned to Paris to assist an old acquaintance.





	A Summer Thaw

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sir_Bedevere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/gifts).

The former bishop of Digne was settling into his new arrangement comfortably enough.

This was a curious sort of afterlife. It felt a little like waking from a dream: One moment he’d been dozing in an upright chair in his home, the light around him dimming and the air growing colder. The next he was in a small room in Paris. Or some part of him was, at least. He was aware of the room surrounding him and simultaneously aware that there was no “him” to surround. He could not travel or speak or even move, really. But somehow he was there. And the man in the room with him seemed calmer for it, even if he could neither see nor hear him.

At first, Myriel had assumed that the man was a stranger — an unfortunate individual in need, perhaps selected for observation and assigned to him by some divine presence. He had accepted this assumption willingly enough, always ready to make himself useful in any way he could. And this man was obviously in distress. He sat beside a bed, hunched over a feverish companion, his hands clenched in silent, agonised prayer. The man in the chair was older than he looked, but there was something in the hunch of his back that seemed older still. It was as though he carried a multitude of lifetimes within one body.

It wasn’t until Myriel observed the two candlesticks above the fireplace that realisation dawned.

_Ah_. Suddenly it was as if the light hit the man from a new angle. The clean clothes fell away. Gone were the slow, careful movements of an older man. There, half hidden by a cravat, there were marks on the throat. There, when the man stood at last and crossed the room, was the telltale drag of a leg. But the real giveaway was the eyes. Myriel had not run into a great deal of convicts in his long and blessed life. But there had been one and Myriel had not readily forgotten this one.

A surge of warmth ran through him at this, the answer at last to the question he had never asked. So this was what his silver had bought: A woman to bring food every few hours, a life that seemed respectable enough and a friend to care for. The room seemed filled up with light and good will, even in this difficult time. The silver had served Jean Valjean far better than it ever would have served Myriel.

Why, then, had he been called to the man’s home?

One thing was clear enough. Jean Valjean was in distress. At first, Myriel assumed his pain was the simple concern of a man for his fellow being. Valjean seemed to spend most of his waking moments watching over the man in the bed. The man slept restlessly but never woke for long and never spoke. So Myriel waited and watched, content to provide some form of company in this long vigil.

Occasionally Valjean would leave, and Myriel would feel the world ebb away. Curious, that he was not pulled after Jean Valjean or left alone with the man in the bed. He only seemed to be needed here with these two men, one man lost in the fires of the fever, the other sunk in unknowable thoughts. 

What could a former bishop do under such circumstances? He could not speak, could not assist with the care and feeding of the sick. In the absence of anything else he might offer, he offered his faith in Valjean and in whatever power had brought him to this room. Perhaps it was useful. Silence can be a balm. 

Myriel had not thought often about Jean Valjean after they met, though visitors had noted the absence of the silver more than once. If anyone had asked him what might have become of the convict who had once passed through his town, would only reply that the man’s future was in his own hands and those of the almighty. Did the Bishop of Digne fear that perhaps his gift had been wasted? If he felt such a fear, he refused to give it voice. In any case, the silver was no great loss to the church. What church could object to a soul bought at so cheap a price?

And there was no doubt that Myriel had purchased the man’s soul. Jean Valjean’s prayers were silent, but so fervent that they echoed through the room. They shook through the core of Myriel until he wondered that the man was not torn apart by the sheer volume of things he feared and the things he hoped for and the people he wished to protect. Jean Valjean’s prayer was terrifying. This strong, quiet man who had built a life from nothing was, within his own mind, reduced to something small and helpless. He was forever grasping at a dozen escaping threads. Myriel could not quite interpret each plea, there were so many of them and each was equally urgent to Valjean. Instead he concentrated on Valjean himself, willing peace and relief to find him at the centre of his private tempest.

The man in the bed slept on, occasionally dragging himself into wakefulness and ranting incoherently in his half-awake state. But after three days, the storm passed. He lay quiet and still with his eyes fixed on the ceiling. Jean Valjean’s posture seemed more tense, despite his evident concern for the man’s health. There was something of the old convict in him now — a fearful defensiveness. A readiness to stand and flee.

“So here we are,” the man in the bed said to the ceiling. His voice was dulled, as though he were playing out an inevitability worked out long before.

“Here we are,” Jean Valjean agreed. His voice sounded nothing like that of the man who’d come looking for shelter in Digne all those years ago. “If you wish to take me in, I won’t resist you.”

The man laughed. It was a terrible, joyless sound that shuddered through Myriel’s senses. Jean Valjean looked away. Neither of them spoke again for some hours.

So this was why he’d been called upon, Myriel thought. He doubted that Jean Valjean had called for him in particular, but it seemed some part of the man had need of him. It was flattering to be remembered for small kindnesses.

The man in Valjean’s care, it appeared, was a policeman. Or perhaps he was no longer a policeman. The matter of his employment was a subject that seemed to be forever in question, along with that of his existence in general.

“I was not supposed to be here,” the man would say, over and over again.

“But here you are,” Jean Valjean would reply, with the helpless stubbornness of a man who has nothing else to say. “So what will you do?”

The answer, for the moment at least, was nothing. The man remained in bed and Jean Valjean seemed content to watch over him. Occasionally one of them would lose his temper: The man’s silence would break like a dam, welling up with recriminations and condemnations. Jean Valjean had evaded justice for so many years. He had mocked the policeman with his lies, with his mercy and now again with his care. If he were truly kind — the word spat out with a seething venom — he would have left the policeman to die quickly at once, not slowly in this chilly room with only his tormentor for company.

Jean Valjean, for his part, was silent when anger caught up with him. His shoulders grew tense and his hands balled into fists. On one occasion he rose and left the room with heavy deliberate strides and Myriel’s heart ached as the world faded around him. There was a helplessness to his task. How could he provide comfort without a voice? Without even hands to offer a warm touch? How could he speak with the authority of the almighty when he could no longer speak?

He prayed. The afterlife had provided him with fewer answers than he might have hoped. But the existence of an afterlife was an answer of sorts, was it not? So he prayed, as he had always done, to the source of compassion that seemed needed more than ever within these four walls.

Days stretched into weeks with no hint of resolution. Myriel watched, his entire being vibrating with an anxiety he could not explain, as the policeman took his first few tentative steps and then crumple, his hands clasping Jean Valjean’s forearms instinctively. Valjean’s hand was steady as he helped the policeman back into the bed, both of them avoiding each other’s eyes. It was not until he moved to the window that he permitted himself to tremble. 

“It won’t be long now,” the policeman said, as if to remind them both. “Once I’m up and moving… what then?”

Jean Valjean did not turn from the window. His shoulders shook and the room echoed with a thousand of his unvoiced fears.

“Perhaps you’ll put an end to this,” he said. And for the first time, Myriel perceived the thinning hair at his temple, the unexpectedly fragile-looking bones of his wrist.

The policeman laughed out loud at that, but the sound of it was as weak as his earlier threat had been. “Perhaps I will simply walk away,” he retorted, and Jean Valjean tensed at the words.

It was a strange sort of bond the two had. The policeman’s name was Javert and his presence brought Jean Valjean no comfort. He, in turn, seemed to resent Valjean’s care, though he tolerated it with a grim forbearance. The two of them only seemed able to communicate either in brusque, oblique sentences or in long speeches that reached no conclusion and left both of them drained of all energy. Neither of them laughed often and Jean Valjean but rarely left the room.

Perhaps it should not have been a surprise to Myriel, but he found no hatred in his heart for the policeman. Despite flares of brusque protectiveness towards Jean Valjean and a firm disapproval of the man’s opinions, he could not help but recognise that the man was doing his best. He was angry and short-tempered and he did not know what his best was anymore. He was not strong enough to prowl the room like a tiger, but still he knew himself to be caged, even if the cage was one of his own making. Jean Valjean bore his ill temper with a quiet grace that made Myriel love him all the more. Yes, this was where he should be. One of these men needed guidance and the other urgently needed an ally, albeit a silent one.

Still, there were days when Myriel longed to follow the housekeeper out and linger in the kitchen as she chopped vegetables and folded linens. The branches of a silver birch were visible through the window, and he ached with the memory of soft damp grass against his bare feet. _How much we take for granted,_ he thought. And now here he was, all sensation a distant memory. Sequestered instead with this strange, unhappy pair.

Javert took longer strides as the days passed, but his confidence showed no signs of improvement. Jean Valjean watched, lips pressed together, as he reached for a second slice of bread one afternoon. When Jean Valjean offered Javert a stack of books to read, Javert exhaled in a long shuddering breath and took the first volume from the top of the pile. He propped himself up and opened it without glancing at the cover, staring at the first page as though staring through it.

After a moment, he set the book down.

“I cannot read with you watching me like that.”

Jean Valjean started a little. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise I was watching you.”

Javert scoffed, not looking at Valjean. “You watch me every moment of the day. It’s only natural: The fox watches the hound, after all. And even a wounded hound can bite.” A glance passed between them, shimmering through the air: Something between a thrill and a shudder. Jean Valjean lowered his eyes and Javert bared his teeth. “Yes. The order of things remains, even if a few pieces have fallen out of place.”

“There is more to my life than this room,” Valjean said with an abrupt sharpness. Javert looked startled and Valjean pinched the bridge of his nose. He spoke respectfully this time, as though measuring every word, but there was a bitterness threaded through it all. “Whatever you imagine is between us, things are more complicated.”

Javert’s chin lifted at that, his gaze sharpening as he studied the slope of Valjean’s shoulders. A surge of something wounded ran through Myriel as well, as though he too were being accused of neglecting Jean Valjean’s wider world. But how could he be expected to help with matters of the outside world when he was trapped here as surely as Javert was?

A silence passed between them. Jean Valjean would not look at Javert, who in turn would not look away from Valjean.

“Nevertheless,” Javert said finally. “I can’t read like this. I could barely stand to read before, and now the process is intolerable to me.”

Valjean glanced at the book. 

“Give it here,” he said in a gruff but gentle tone. Javert handed it over and Valjean opened it. “I haven’t read aloud since…” He trailed off. If Javert noticed the interrupted thought, he did not acknowledge it.

Javert sat silently as Jean Valjean read, still propped upright in the bed, his mouth a taut line. His hand gripped the sheets as they gathered around him and Myriel was filled with a boundless, wordless sorrow. Perhaps it was Javert’s or perhaps it was his own.

A fading leaf from the silver birch blew through the bedroom window when Javert opened it one morning. He brushed it aside, and when Jean Valjean came to look questioningly over his shoulder, he moved away.

“It was nothing,” he said, settling himself in the chair beside the bed. “A leaf, I think.”

There were two chairs in the room now. Javert was wearing a shirt that fit him better than the ones he had worn in the bed, and he looked better for it. Myriel had watched Valjean offer him a choice of shirts with uncharacteristic shyness, turning to face the wall as Javert pulled on one and then the other. Now Javert had a full suit and two spare shirts. When he stood, he stood upright. And now, when he could not stand, he preferred to sit.

Valjean glanced out of the window.

“It would be good for you to get some air before the summer passes,” he said. The words were uneasy and he would not face Javert. “We could take a walk if you feel up to it.”

“The failed police officer and his escaped quarry, arm in arm in the Luxembourg. We’d make a pretty sight indeed.” Javert spoke without rancour, but there was a defeat in his voice. They had had this argument out more than once, and all three of them now seemed resigned to the inevitability of the walk.

“Not the Luxembourg,” was all Jean Valjean said. 

Valjean reached out of the window to brush his fingers against the birch bark. Myriel imagined himself almost close enough to feel its cool roughness. It was hard, to go so long without sensation. How long had it been since he had been permitted to look up into the heavens? Since he had seen a star or observed the lazy progress of a cloud as it drifted overhead? Too long.

The two men in the room had fallen silent without reaching a conclusion, but it was a more companionable silence than those of previous days and weeks. As Jean Valjean watched through the window, Myriel tried to picture Paris as he had seen it once, over a lifetime ago: Before the church. Before ninety-three. Before he had set aside coy smiles and the fleeting pleasure of touch and chosen a more solid sort of kindness.

Still, there were simple pleasures to be had — even in the city. Soon there would be bread and fruit, for Javert could manage more than broth now. There were a bunch of wildflowers in a vase, which Jean Valjean had set reverently beside the window three days ago and which were already beginning to lose their colour. On a nearby branch, a lark was singing. Despite Paris’ sinful reputation, there was beauty to be found here.

“If I can go outside to take the air and admire the town’s idle creatures, then surely I can work,” Javert said, breaking the long silence.

Valjean did not reply. He traced the outline of the vase.

“I still have a duty, Valjean, whether we like it or not. So if I am well enough to return to work, but I will not work, what will become of me?”

“You are not well yet. And when you are, we will work things out. You will not go hungry.”

“You think you might slip me a coin,” Javert snapped, rising to his feet. One hand gripped the back of his chair as he stepped closer to Valjean. “You imagine I will accept your charity as gratefully as the wretches you pass on the street.”

“Javert.”

Another halting step and Valjean was pressed between the window and Javert. And somehow Myriel, who had no need for breath, knew how little air there was in the room. The two men were drawn taut with their fears, all formless and unvoiced.

“To think. The man who once drove me mad with his bargains.”

Javert’s hand was on Valjean’s upper arm. Was he threatening or steadying himself? His large hand curled around a bicep that was still strong despite the soft cotton shirt and the deepening lines around Jean Valjean’s mouth.

“This woman needs a hospital. This boy needs to be with his grandfather. And now, when the sword of the law hangs over you, you will not even do me the decency of pretending to be afraid.” Javert’s voice trembled. “The old dog still has teeth, Jean Valjean. Have a care.”

Beneath his hands, Jean Valjean inhaled and then released a long breath. He looked at the wildflowers in the vase, alive with reds and yellows but already beginning to wilt.

Poor little things, Myriel thought, following his gaze. They mean no harm but see how much trouble they can cause us. He concentrated on the drooping leaves, wishing nothing but the best for them.

As they watched, the clouds shifted outside the window. The light shone in, catching the splayed petals of a sunflower at an unexpected angle. And in that strange new light, its yellows were brighter and its black seeds bolder. Jean Valjean looked back at Javert, a curious warmth in his eyes.

“Believe me, I know what you’re capable of,” he said. He reached up to touch Javert’s jawline with a faltering finger. “I think I know it better than you do yourself, as a matter of fact. Perhaps that’s why I’m not afraid of you.”

Javert endured the touch, though there was still a heat in his eyes. His hand tightened on Valjean’s arm and then released it, falling away as he turned and stalked back to the chair.

“Very well then. If you aren’t afraid, why don’t you come and read me more of that book of yours?”

Valjean inclined his head, taking one more wistful look at the vase of flowers. They would still die, Myriel realised. But at least they’d served some unknowable purpose. Valjean followed Javert to the second empty chair beside the bed.

One never knows how human beings might surprise one even at an advanced age. Even as one surpasses one’s advanced age and crosses into the unknown territory of death. Even, the former Bishop of Digne was coming to learn, as one moves beyond that point. A lesson he had learned over and over again in life — and, it seemed, must learn once again in this place beyond life — was the power of gentle persistence.

Perhaps he could not speak or write or touch the men he had been sent to help along. But perhaps he was less powerless than he had once thought. When the morning sun streamed through the window, he thought _why, what a pleasant morning_. And the mere thought of it made the morning more pleasant. And, with the sunlight more cheerful, Jean Valjean was more likely to open a window. And every long-occupied room is less stifling if a little breeze is permitted to rush through it.

Javert would occasionally come to the window and open it of his own accord now that his legs were stronger. At first he had come to slam it closed after Valjean left it ajar behind him. But on mornings when Myriel found the light unusually inviting, even Javert could be tempted.

One such morning, Jean Valjean arrived to find the policeman frozen at the open window, his fingers trailing against the bark of the silver birch. A patch of green moss had sprouted on the windowsill under Myriel’s quiet encouragement and he was examining it with his typical frightening intensity. Behind him, a jug of water in one hand, Jean Valjean froze in the doorway.

What was Jean Valjean’s expression? There was a fear in his eyes that Myriel had not expected after so many long weeks alongside Javert. It was not the fear of the traveller in Digne, who knew himself to be at the mercy of the police, the almighty and a meddling priest. Nor was it the fear of the world behind these four walls that Myriel had caught more than once in Javert’s hollowed-out expression. Jean Valjean was afraid, but there was no knowing what was haunting him. Was this not what he had wanted, after all? For the man in the bed to be up and about and contemplating the outside world?

Javert turned and caught Valjean’s eye before he could school his expression back into the calm mask he wore most often around Javert. The two men’s eyes met and then they broke apart.

“You have moss growing on your windowsill,” Javert said after a moment’s silence.

“I do?”

Javert shifted to make room. “Look.”

Valjean crossed the room to join him, peering out of the window. The moss was damp with morning dew, green as a secluded glen. Myriel was particularly proud of the tendrils, which he imagined were pleasant to brush a finger against.

An ant was marching across the windowsill as Valjean reached out to touch the moss. It forged a path across cracked paintwork without a hesitant step. When it reached Valjean’s finger, it clambered over the unexpected obstacle and continued on its way. If it found food, there would be more of its brothers soon. How simple it would be, to be an ant, thought Myriel. Perhaps that would come next.

Javert was looking down at the windowsill, his shoulders still tense. As the two of them looked out, he allowed his hip to brush against Jean Valjean’s. Valjean did not move aside and the two of them stood there, breathing.

“Shall we take that walk today?” Valjean said after a moment.

“First a turn in the garden and then a visit to the prefecture,” Javert said, with a grim irony. Neither of them believed the threat at this point, Myriel was sure of that much. But Valjean’s eyes were still fixed on the horizon. “Or perhaps you’d rather I try to make my way on the streets.”

“I have been in touch with your portress,” Valjean replied. “When the time comes, you will have somewhere to live. Whether you return to the police or...” He made a helpless gesture. “Whatever you may choose to do.”

Javert’s jaw had tightened at the mention of his portress, but he nodded. “And you would prefer me not to return to my post.”

Their hips were still pressed together. Myriel focused on the warmth of that point of connection, trying to cultivate the strange closeness between them. This single point, he thought, must be the key to what was going on in this room. He imagined it as a glowing light and tried to picture it growing steadily, swelling until it might pull the two of them into a single mass of light.

“That isn’t my place to decide,” said Jean Valjean. 

Javert huffed irritably and pulled away, shattering Myriel’s vision of light. “Well then. Keep your opinions to yourself. Much good they’d be to me anyway. The day will come soon enough, and decisions will be made one way or another.”

He stalked across the room to the basin and began to wash. Valjean and turned to watch, Myriel observing as his eyes followed the easy movement of Javert’s stride. There was no denying that time and patience had worked an everyday miracle. Javert was close to whole.

Some of the men’s irritation must have seeped into the air because Myriel found himself unexpectedly put out. Wasn’t he doing the best with what small powers he had been granted? Without the authority to provide guidance or dismiss the law — or, for that matter, give both of these obstinate men a piece of his mind — what was left to him? If his duty was to guide Jean Valjean and his patient through recovery, surely the work was done. But here he still was and here they were: Javert stripping off his dirty night clothes with no need for help, pulling on a clean pair of trousers with suppressed fury, while Valjean watched from across the room, a world away.

“I will take myself for a walk,” Javert said when he was dressed. Valjean started at that, taking a step closer, but Javert halted him with a raised hand.

Valjean fell still but his chest rose and fell. He lowered his eyes. “I won’t make things difficult,” he said. “We needn’t discuss the future. But you haven’t been outside in over a month. You need to be accompanied.”

“Yes, that sounds right enough. You’ll allow me outside but only on parole,” Javert bared his teeth as Valjean flinched at the word. And when Valjean opened his mouth to protest, Javert cut him off. “Very well, I’ll accept your terms. But these are mine: You will not discuss my future circumstances. You will not stop for every passing beggar. I will not entertain an argument about morality or duty or what my responsibility may be.”

“What shall we talk about then?”

“Must we talk at all?”

“If we talk at all, what shall we talk about?”

“If we must talk at all.” Javert paused and Myriel gave him a nudge. “If we see a tree or a rare plant or water fowl, perhaps you might tell me a little about it.”

Valjean inclined his head. He took a deep breath. “Let me find you a coat,” he said. 

Myriel felt the familiar sensation of the world fading around him, like being pulled down into a deep sleep, as the prisoner helped the police officer into a long, black coat. They both reached to fasten the same button, and when their hands brushed, neither pulled away. And Myriel was dragged pleasantly away, but for the first time, there was a hopefulness in the descent.

After weeks shut up in a tiny room and years of silence before that, the Luxembourg was a miracle. The blackbirds chirruped up above and the neatly arranged flowerbeds were alive with dainty, pretty blossoms whose names Myriel had only the most vague sense. Squirrels scampered across trees, chasing each other into unseen places between the branches. Caterpillars munched quietly on leaves. Myriel could feel it all, the pulse of life — not only of the people and creatures around them, but life that beat through every whispering leaf and movement of the water.

It would have been lovely to reach out and touch it, but we are only given a brief time on this earth.

Still, he thought, let that be a lesson to the two men walking side by side over the path. Both were gloomy: Javert weighed down with the same troubles he’d brought to the park and Jean Valjean sinking in spirits with every step. Neither of them spoke.

Remembering Javert’s suggestion earlier, Myriel scanned the garden for an unusual blossom or a brightly coloured bird. He had never much prized one plant over another, allowing his garden to grow as it would, much to Madame Magloire’s irritation. And now, dazzled by the variety of animals and plants surrounding him, he could hardly differentiate between them. From the deep green vines that crawled up walls to the speckled brown songbirds, everything seemed ordinary and everything seemed marvellous.

Myriel could not say what it had been like in that dark place between his death and this curious half-life. But he knew that this was not life, this second-hand existence. Now he could not feel the wind at his back or the ground beneath his feet, but he was replenished by every breath that each surrounding being drew. Life was so common, so cruel and so lightly cast aside. And yet it is so rare. 

Javert and Jean Valjean stopped to lean against a wall. Neither of them had called a halt, but when one stopped, the other drew up beside him instinctively. Myriel wondered if either of them even knew which had grown tired. Perhaps they both had.

“Is this what you had in mind?” Javert said.

“The garden is beautiful in the summer,” said Jean Valjean, but there was little enthusiasm in his voice.

Javert cast his eyes over the sprouting shrubs and hovering butterflies, the trimmed hedges and the scattering of forget-me-nots and posies. Some diligent groundsman had cultivated the flowers in a dazzling bed surrounded by a carefully maintained lawn.

“It all looks much the same to me,” said Javert.

Jean Valjean looked at him, then out at the garden and then at the soft dirt beneath his feet.

“It does to me too,” he admitted. And without warning, he sunk to the ground. He leaned back against the wall and put his face in his hands. His shoulders shook.

Javert took a horrified step backwards. Then he moved closer. “Get up,” he ordered, as though he might order this man to do anything and expect a response. 

Jean Valjean did not get up.

“Get up, Valjean. You will ruin your clothes.” Javert looked over his shoulder. “Whatever will people think, a grown man sitting on the ground like that?”

“Men sit on the ground every day in this city,” said Jean Valjean into his hands. Could Javert hear him? It hardly mattered. Myriel heard him and he ached for him, even as he ached for those unfortunates with no home and no bed and no difficult friends. “Grown men. Every one of them more deserving than me.”

“Will you get up,” Javert had lowered his voice to a panicked hiss. “Jean Valjean, will you _please_— very well then.” And taking one final hopeless glance over his shoulder, he sunk down against the wall too, wincing as he settled himself in the dirt beside Valjean. He reached over and seized the man’s hand in a grip that did not seem exactly comforting but which must have been well intentioned.

Jean Valjean looked up, his eyes wide.

“I hope you’re satisfied,” Javert said. He leaned his shoulder against Valjean’s. “This will play havoc with my leg.”

“I did not _ask_ you to—” Jean Valjean began, but Javert cut him off with a murderous look. He sighed, and then he said, “speaking about the future is forbidden. But may I tell you something about the past?”

Javert inclined his head.

“I once worked as a pruner, a long time ago now. It is not an easy job. You rise at dawn and spend the day climbing trees. You cut away dead branches, which takes time — some are rotten and break away easily but others still feel like a part of the tree. It is exhausting work with very little reward. And in the winter, there is no work at all.”

Javert grunted as though this story was not new to him, but he did not complain or let go of Jean Valjean’s hand, so Jean Valjean continued.

“I was not the best of brothers or the best of uncles in those days, but I did what I could to provide for my sister and her children. And the children were only children— children don’t know they should be grateful, they only know that they’re hungry. They screamed when their bellies were empty. Do you know, there is no worse sound than a screaming child when you have nothing to give it.”

Javert almost certainly knew nothing of the sort, but he wisely held his tongue and Myriel blessed him for it.

“I can bear the sound of crying when I know I can make things right. I can tolerate insults and complaints and threats. Trees do not make such a fuss, but they are not so warm. Still, there is the one thing a pruner can be sure of: A tree will never uproot itself and walk away. It will not thank you for your patience, which is just as well because I do not need to be thanked. It will not shout or cry or demand more than you can give, though I can bear that too. And after a year, when the winter passes and the branches are in blossom, that tree will be stronger than ever, waiting with its arms open. People are different.” 

“There is a silence waiting for me that I never learned to bear. I remember it well, this feeling, though I hardly expected it this time.” Jean Valjean took a long, shaking breath. “I have been an uncle, a father and now… a prisoner? A nurse? Whatever I am, the result is always the same. I make a better gardener.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Myriel floated, tense and uneasy. Javert squeezed Valjean’s hand more tightly.

“But you are right,” said Jean Valjean at last. His free hand trailed over the ground, his fingers pressing into the damp soil. “Sooner or later, you will have to make a new arrangement. And so will I.”

“A new arrangement needn’t be quite so drastic as all that,” Javert mumbled. But as he said so, he shifted closer to Valjean, and the warm point where their bodies joined shimmered upwards until they were pressed shoulder to shoulder. 

“Oh?”

“I will return to my apartment. You will visit me on occasion and read to me. Perhaps, when I’ve recovered from the indignity of sitting in the dirt in the middle of the Luxembourg, we will attempt another walk.”

Valjean exhaled. It was a soft, shuddering sound that might have been laughter. And Myriel, who had little control over anything, did what little he could to register his approval of the plan.

Javert looked up to see a marvellous creature had stalked up to them, its vibrant tail feathers fanned out in spectacular fashion. He nudged Valjean.

“That,” said Jean Valjean, “is a peacock.”

How had the peacock found itself roaming the Luxembourg gardens? Perhaps it was originally locked in some undeserving nobleman’s apiary, with nothing better to do than to wait for the ladies to visit it. Perhaps it was inspired, by some not-quite-divine force, to find some more worthy admirers. Who can say.

The bird peered at Javert, beady-eyed and haughty. Javert respectfully inclined his head. He kept a hand on Valjean’s, perhaps out of pride or perhaps out of some protective impulse. Either way, the peacock seemed satisfied with his deference and strode off in search of further adventure. Myriel watched it leave, charmed by its beauty and its ridiculousness. Yes, there was much to enjoy in Paris. How glad he was to have been allowed outside Jean Valjean’s house, if only once.

Jean Valjean heaved himself to his feet and reached down to help Javert up too. He avoided Javert’s eyes as he brushed down both of their coats. Meanwhile Myriel felt a familiar tug and he was filled with an unexpected shock. Would this be the last he saw of these two men? If he had a heart, it would have raced. Instead, he looked over Jean Valjean and did his best to be glad.

_You did well, my brother._

Jean Valjean looked up, as though startled. As Myriel felt himself fade, he might have almost believed Jean Valjean was looking into his eyes.

Myriel did not fade, but things changed in that moment. Whatever tether was holding him to Valjean loosened. And although he was not quite set adrift, he had the freedom to explore a little further. He drifted a little, passing through Notre Dame and admiring the Petit Picpus from a respectful distance. He glanced upon some distant relative walking in the street with a basket of pastries. The city opened up and he felt the weight of every soul on its streets and he did what little he could. But he didn’t stray far from Jean Valjean and eventually he made a kind of home for himself in a garden. 

It was smaller than the Luxembourg and quieter too. But Myriel was content. There were four walls, yes, but the walls were green with vines. Insects crept along the ground and an occasional prowling cat would weave through the iron gate’s railings and explore the long grass and dark corners. It was a garden that must have once been full of secrets, but what secrets were left to it could do no more harm.

One sunny afternoon in the warm, late days of the summer, Myriel observed a young woman. She was playing on the grass with a baby, who Myriel had come to think of as a grandchild in some ways, wrapped in a white blanket. She watched with wide eyes as the woman plucked a snowy white dandelion and raised it to her lips before blowing to release a flurry of a whirling seeds. The child shrieked and giggled at the sight.

Watching from a bench on the far end of the garden, Javert sat uneasily beside a young man, who was watching the woman with a pleasant air of devastation.

“I’m lost,” the young man said cheerfully. “The infant is her world and Marius forgotten. Who is Pontmercy? Only some poor stranger who fetches blankets and clean towels for her sweetheart.”

“She had fine parents,” Javert replied. And then, with a generosity that did not yet suit him, “as does Mademoiselle over there.”

The young man smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. Javert excused himself, rising stiffly. He waited with the rusty patience of a former police spy until the young man’s attention was back on his wife and baby before slipping away to a secluded corner of the garden where Jean Valjean was resting against an oak tree.

“Are the children entertaining themselves?”

Javert nodded, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Your son in law managed half a conversation about legal reforms before admitting he can think about nothing but his little girl. And quite right too.”

Jean Valjean smiled. It was a new kind of smile for him, but one that Myriel had seen more and more since making himself comfortable in the garden. “I’m glad you were able to come. You can’t know what it means to me, to have all of you here like this.”

Javert stepped closer. There was something in his expression that Myriel half remembered from more than a lifetime ago. His hand came up to touch Jean Valjean’s arm. There was nothing new in that: Their arms had touched many times. And yet...

“I was paid for the first time yesterday,” Javert said. “Monsieur Renault tells me my reports gave him a ‘valuable insight’ into the workings of the bagne.”

Jean Valjean stiffened a little, but he nodded.

“He means to retain my services,” Javert said. “I needn’t keep you informed on the details, but you can rest easy in the knowledge that he’s doing good work.”

“Very well.”

“I tell you this for two reasons,” Javert said, his tone shifting into something uncharacteristically nervous. “First of all, I must insist that you stop paying my rent. You’ve done more than enough and I can make my own way from now on.”

Jean Valjean’s jaw was clenched, but he nodded. He waited for Javert’s second pronouncement the way a man expects a blow. But Myriel, who had been young once, observed the anxious way Javert’s hand hesitated at Jean Valjean’s arm. He saw the sudden duck of the old policeman’s head and the way he paused — as he never seemed to pause — before he spoke again.

“The second thing is…” Javert fell silent. He opened his mouth and could not speak. Myriel felt the tremor that ran through him.

“The second thing,” Javert tried again. “The second thing is… Jean Valjean, will you please look at me?”

Jean Valjean exhaled. He angled his head to look up at Javert and at long last he saw what Myriel had seen a moment earlier. His expression changed.

“_Oh_.”

“So we understand one another for once,” Javert said. And he took Valjean gently by the shoulders and kissed him, pressing him back against the oak tree. 

Jean Valjean made a small noise in the back of his throat, and then his hands came up to clutch at Javert’s back and shoulder. They kissed clumsily, as old men might who have never tried such things before, hungry and chaste all at once. They moved with the urgency of men who have waited a lifetime and the languor of men who know they have the rest of their lives to keep going.

Myriel tactfully withdrew, leaving Jean Valjean to his captor, his patient and his friend. There were a great many lovely things to discover in his adopted garden. And besides, it was hardly the place of a bishop — even a former bishop — to oversee such activities. It was not yet late and there was much yet to be done, within the garden’s walls and without.

But when Jean Valjean and Javert broke apart, some time later, they would notice for the first time that they were standing in the centre of a patch of honeywort. Each red flower was fresh with dew, each leaf brushed silver in the afternoon sun.


End file.
